


an ode to those who lost their lives and what that may entail

by scythias



Series: star wars [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Drabble, Gen, Heavy Angst, Lowercase, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scythias/pseuds/scythias
Summary: clone-centric drabbles. could be anything from ficlets to metas. will contain spoilers for tcw s7 and all episodes beforehand.
Series: star wars [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663864
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	1. rex & jesse

rex comes to stand next to ahsoka in front of the lines of helmets held up on spikes. regards each and every one, variation in their design amidst the ranks. he can recognize each unique scratch above visors or on scalps, see those whose coat of paint was new and spruce and those whose coat of paint was worn and flaking. he can see those who were painted a beautiful shade of sunset orange, white markings of diamonds and lines on their foreheads. he can see those who do not hold any shade of paint at all, the ivory of shinies inducted into the 332nd kept clean save for the ashes atop their plastoid. he can see those with the same shade of blue they’ve always had, forming triangles down the center of their buckets, of unique designs pertaining to the brothers he had known long ago.

his eyes drift towards the clone helmet at the center front, held up on a spike for all to see. the visor outlined by a shade of blue, the republic cog he was so famously known for painted in a gray that flakes off the edge. old, belonging to one of a vet, of one who had led the charge back on saleucami when he could not, of one who took the opportunity to do what was right and risk his life flying those umbaran fighters up to the mothership above. jesse. arc trooper jesse. gone.

( he had died in rex’s arms just hours before. had died once the ship collapsed upon the ground, crawling out of the remains in an attempt to seek vengeance once more. lodged into his stomach was a piece of durasteel. he collapsed three steps in.

rex had cradled him in his arms, sobbing pitifully as he held his brother with trembling hands, clutching to him so tight it could’ve made the pain worse. but it wouldn’t be much of a difference — jesse was dying. rex had reached over, slipped jesse’s bucket from over his head, coming face to face with the trooper he had loved like his own flesh and blood. pain contorting his face, mouth pulled into a grit of teeth, tears falling down his cheek as he gasps for air. smothered in nothing but grime and blood. 

jesse attempts to reach for his blaster, still overtaken by the chip, but rex throws it away before he has the chance. then jesse grabs at his neck, attempting to strangle him. rex latches onto it before he makes it to his throat. he grips it. tight. tight enough to break it, and his  _ vod’ika _ trembles even harder. he’s shaking. crying harder.

“ _ traitor _ ,” jesse had whispered to him. the words are rancid, spiteful, but the look in his eyes was of nothing but pain. one that rex recognized before. it was the look he had when hardcase died, it was the look he had when kix vanished, it was the look he had after maul breached his mind and subjected him to unspeakable torture. but… it was also a look of love. a brotherly love, one that has rex’s heart-wrenching at the sight. jesse was still in there.

and in the next moment, he’s gone. )

rex stands before the lines of the troopers he’s been with for the last couple of days, or weeks, or years. stands before their burials, lined up just in the formation he had them stand in a few hours before. even in death they were just soldiers. mindless, dead soldiers.

he should have listened to fives. he should have come back for echo. he should have fought harder for dogma to be freed, listened to slick despite what he had done. he should have tried to search for kix after he disappeared, he should have kept tup with him when he had the chance, he should have said goodbye to cody before he left for mandalore. he should have saved jesse. he should have saved wolffe, or bly, or anyone. he should have saved them. instead, he stands in a sea of dead brothers, wearing the armor of a commander that he is no longer fit to be.

“rex?” ahsoka calls out to him softly, her gray robe flowing around her like the wings of a sprite, montrals sticking up from under her hood. 

it’s upon her words that rex realizes the streaks of tears that have begun to cascade down his cheek, flowing down and down until it reaches his chestplate and the dusty ground below. it’s upon her words that rex finally breaks, falling to his knees and releasing a sob from deep within his chest, the grief and anger and frustration and  _ hopelessness _ finally setting in and washing over like a tidal wave. ahsoka is at his side immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder pauldron, letting him sob into her embrace. rex clutches onto her robe so tight he’s afraid to let go.

and rex cries. he just cries. for how long, he doesn’t know. for what reasons, he doesn’t know. but every time he looks up again, and sees jesse’s helmet up on that stake, the tears start up again. and he cries. because that’s all he can do.


	2. the 501st

they say the 501st is the luckiest battalion in the entire gar.

they’re called many things. reckless. impulsive. adaptive. suicidal. cunning. the 501st are known for many things: the most frequent thing being lucky. lucky to have general anakin skywalker, greatest jedi of the order, friend to all, as their leader. lucky to be made up of the finest group of troopers known to man, specialized in strategy and war. lucky to survive every mission they’re on, lucky to survive every planet or moon or system they’re deployed on. they say each member of the 501st is lucky.

perhaps you are lucky if you are one of the 501st.

perhaps you are echo. arc trooper. you have lost three members of your five-person squad on the rishi moon base. you live through the battle of kamino, where you lose 99, a defective clone with the purest of heart. only a few months into your time of an arc trooper, you are blown to pieces by a starship in the middle of a separatist prison known as the citadel. you wake up a year or two later, your body trapped in stasis, your mind probed by medical tools and brain hooked onto cables, your body no longer your own. you learn you have lost your best friend and brother, and are the last domino alive. perhaps you are echo, and perhaps you are lucky.

perhaps you are hardcase. clone trooper specialist. the demolitionist, the brash and heartiful clone trooper who earned a roll of eyes from the kaminoans that raised you since decantation. they said you had a leak in the bacta tank, taken a mighty fall as a cadet that ruptured open your skull, had an issue with your head. you were there on umbara, there when the jedi general known as pong krell took control of your clone battalion and forced you to suffer from each death on the field. you took that umbaran ship to take vengeance on that supply ship overhead against direct orders. you killed yourself in the process. perhaps you are hardcase, and perhaps you are lucky.

perhaps you are dogma. clone trooper specialist and reservist medic. you lost your entire batch only halfway through your cadet training and were put out on the field at age seven. you became a stickler to authority, became a lapdog to superiors because it is the only way you know how to function, only way you can earn praise despite the looks your brothers give you. you are there on umbara as well. you become general krell’s own hound, sniffing out those who opposed his rule, only for him to make you kill your brothers. in his betrayal, you killed krell. you are then arrested, court-martialed, and executed by firing squad. perhaps you are dogma, and perhaps you are lucky.

perhaps you are tup. clone trooper specialist. you and dogma were the only surviving members of your decommissioned batch. after he was gone before you could mutter a protest, you began to experience headaches. headaches turned to migraines. migraines turned to malfunction. malfunction turned you into a husk of yourself and forced you to kill a jedi. you are regarded as a monster, an asset that went wrong, and you don’t remember what exactly you have done. you are taken to kamino for inspection. you die from the operation, of taking the malfunction out of your head, in the arms of a brother. perhaps you are tup, and perhaps you are lucky.

perhaps you are fives. arc trooper. you have lost your twin brother. you were on umbara. you have lost a friend to a firing squad and another to something that you cannot explain. you push yourself to uncover the secret, devote your entire life to figuring out just what went wrong with tup. you go against direct protocol, you nearly get yourself killed until you find the answer — a biochip, embedded enter each and every one of your siblings’ brains. you unearth a conspiracy that drives you nearly insane; you plead to others for your case but are then pushed away. you die, a blaster hole in your chest, fired by a brother. perhaps you are fives, and perhaps you are lucky.

perhaps you are kix. clone trooper medic. you have seen brothers die on the battlefield, die in the medcenter, and die in your arms. and you blame yourself for each and every one. you are in 79’s one night, ready to meet with a hook-up because you know of nothing else to do, when your brother comes to you begging for help. you find out he dies only a few hours later. you continue his research, continue to unearth the conspiracy that fives had warned you about. in your investigation, you are taken hostage. you are knocked out. you are put in a stasis chamber for fifty years and awake to a world where you are the last clone standing. perhaps you are kix, and perhaps you are lucky.

perhaps you are jesse. arc trooper. you have been promoted to an arc for your heroic deeds and to take the place of a ghost. you serve under commander rex of the 332nd. on mandalore, your group is sabotaged, and you are taken hostage by a sadistic devil known as darth maul who breaks your spirit. he breaches into your mind, digs into your brain until there is only pain, and shatters your self-esteem until you are nothing but pieces. only hours later, you are taken control by an unseen machine and forced to shoot at those you care for most. you die in a crash in the arms of your commander, durasteel lodged into your stomach. perhaps you are jesse, and perhaps you are lucky.

perhaps you are rex. former clone captain, former clone commander. you have lost everything. you have survived each battle. the battle of teth, of lola sayu, of umbara, of ringo vida, of mandalore, and the clone wars. you have led your men to their deaths. echo, hardcase, dogma, tup, fives, kix, jesse. you have lost all of them. you are without rank, without purpose; living in a world where your brothers have become slaves to a sith lord, your general is dead, and the only hand you have to hold is the one of damaged girl. you stand in front of a burial ground dedicated to the men who tried to kill you, no hope to reach for. perhaps you are rex, and perhaps you are lucky.

perhaps you are lucky if you are one of the 501st.

because they say the 501st is the luckiest battalion in the goddamn gar.


	3. fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> forcesensitivebantha asked: hey what's up, as we both know I'm a sucker for Fox. So uh. Can I get some of that Good Good Fox content? Thanks bro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: underaged drinking

the first time fox tries alcohol with his  _ vode  _ , he’s around eight ( sixteen ).

he’s actually the one to smuggle it into the barracks when the kaminoans weren’t watching — alpha-17 had been perfectly turned around at just the right moment. fox snuck behind one of the crates, reached out with a hand towards the canister that was perched atop the nearest one, before booking it down the corridor before the older could notice. he knew they wouldn’t count the numbers of alcohol. there were too many bottles for too little men. they wouldn’t care for one little bottle that goes missing — they’ve already got their hands full. and they’ll never know it would be fox, because fox is good at stealing, and fox is good at never getting caught.

he enters the small private barracks he shares with his batchmates, shutting and locking the sliding door behind them. he struts over to a circle of his  _ vode  _ , plopping down and placing the canister in the center of the group as if they were praising some sort of deity. “here.”

his brothers regard the canister, at first, with surprise. then they melted away into varying degrees of expression.

“that’s it?” ponds asks. fox gives him a glare.

“if i steal any more, they would have noticed something was wrong. this is what we can afford right now.”

“what is it?” kote asks, and before fox could stop him, he reaches forward and grabs the canister. he twists off the cap and sniffs its contents. he grimaces. “it smells weird.”

“alcohol,” fox answers promptly. the group ( except ponds ) gives him incredulous looks.

“what?” wolffe asks.

“jango brought some for the arcs after they completed some test. ponds and i heard about it and decided to grab some.”

“you  _ stole  _ some.”

“you act like it’s any different.”

“fox.” kote gives fox a disapproving glare, crossing his arms and furrowing his eyebrows together. “give it back.”

fox raises an eyebrow. “and let them catch me? or have them know that we stole their precious liquor?”

“you know jango wouldn’t approve.”

“jango doesn’t need to know.”

bly shifts uncomfortably, eyeing the canister in kote’s hand. “what do we do with it, then?”

“well,” ponds shrugs, “we can’t let it go to waste.”

“ _ pond’ika  _ !” wolffe scolds, but ponds holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“he’s right,” fox admits to them. “you wouldn’t want to discredit all the hard work i put into stealing this, wouldn’t you?”

“i would,” kote says.

“shut up,” fox says. “okay, if you guys aren’t going to drink it, then i’ll do it.”

he snatches the canister from kote’s hand, ignoring the other’s skeptical looks, and takes a large sip from the bottle. at first, it tasted like nothing. then, bitterness sets in his mouth, almost acidic as it settles on his tongue. the gulps it down with the minimum of a grimace, before closing up the drink. the other  _ vode  _ stare at him, waiting for his reaction.

“so?” ponds asks.

fox looks down on the drink. “it’s good.”

“let me try.”

fox, at first, is perturbed when bly holds out his hand to take the canister, but nonetheless hands it to him. bly takes a swig from the bottle. he’s understandably more reactive, his entire face scrunching up as the alcohol pours down his mouth, but nonetheless he swallows it and gives a nod. “it’s kinda… weird.”

“what kind of weird?” wolffe asks him.

“pretty strong.”

ponds grabs the canister when bly offers it to him. he takes only a small sip of the drink before curling over and spitting it out. the group jumps up just as ponds descends into a coughing fit. “fucking karabast!” he yells out, not enough to alert the clones walking outside their room, but just loud enough to nearly cut off fox’s ears. “that’s so gross!”

“you’re overreacting,” fox tells him.

“it feels like my tongue became a pod racer,” ponds gags. “how strong is that stuff?”

“not that strong,” bly says, ignoring what he had said earlier. he’s hiding a small laugh behind his hands.

“bullshit.”

“language,” kote comments. he opens up his hand. “hit me up.”

“i thought you wanted to be a goody-two-shoes and give it back,” wolffe teases with a snarl.

“that was before i saw ponds spit out his entire immune system,” kote promptly replies. “hand it over,  _ vod’ika  _ .”

kote takes a large sip nearly as much as fox did, and he too has barely any reaction to the liquor, only pulling his lips into a thin line at the taste. “so?” ponds asks.

kote shrugs. “it’s okay.” he tosses the bottle to wolffe. “your turn,  _ ori’vod  _ . see if you can hold it in.”

“are you seriously making this a competition?” fox asks, though judging kote’s habits of being a competitive little shit, he’s not surprised.

“course i am,” kote says. “drink it.”

wolffe glares at him, the two  _ ori’vode  _ of the group already at each other’s throats, and he takes the largest swig out of all of them. as a result, he’s the one with nearly the strongest reaction, scowling to hold in his reaction before exhaling with a whistle. “damn.”

“i win,” kote says.

“no you didn’t,” wolffe growls. “fox’s the same as you.”

fox could almost punch both wolffe and kote if the latter didn’t give him a glittering expression. “you still have those shot glasses you smuggled in, don’t you,  _ fox’ika  _ ?”

ignoring the belittling nickname, fox nods, though his poker face is only a few steps away from becoming a full-on grin. “i’ll fucking demolish you.”

“language.”

by the end of the night, fox’s chest is warm and his vision is dizzy, but for his first time being drunk, he’s doing surprisingly well. he had expected to black-out, but as it turns out his tolerance to alcohol was pretty decent, and he only slurred on one or two words. ponds was passed out somewhere. he collapsed on the second shot glass ( fox doesn’t even know why he continued drinking after his initial reaction to the taste ). bly had become a lot more talkative ( horrifying ) and was super clingy to everyone, and was laying on kote’s lap and giggling for no reason. kote was doing fine. either because he had good alcohol tolerance or because he wanted to be a little shit to everyone else. wolffe had become loud, so much so that he had to be shushed by everyone whenever his voice was boisterous throughout the room, and he wraps his arms around fox’s shoulders as he swayed to unheard music. fox doesn’t push him off. if he did, wolffe would fall off the pod bed and roll all the way down to the door like a bolo ball.

when they had finished the canister, fox simply chucks it down the trash chute when it has exhausted its use. by that time, bly had passed out, and the loud-ass wolffe had begun to sober up. fox chucks the latter one of the water bottles in their storage. “drink it. it’ll stop you from having a hangover next morning.”

wolffe raises an eyebrow at him. “you know a lot about alcohol, don’t you?”

fox shrugs. “eavesdropping is easy.”

“ah.”

wolffe tries to give him a keldabe kiss, but ends up bonking their heads lamely together hard enough for fox’s teeth to chatter. wolffe cackles at that. “thanks for the drink,  _ vod’ika  _ .”

“mhm.”

fox is the last one awake out of all of them. bly was tucked beneath kote’s embrace with ponds on the older’s other side. wolffe was asleep in his own pod bed. fox was at the edge of wolffe’s pod, looking at his brothers, making sure all of them were asleep. he swears it’s the alcohol that’s making his chest burn and his features soften, not the sight of all of them together in one place. he swears on his life.

when he’s determined that none of them are awake, he sneaks out of the barracks. he comes back with another canister. he sits on his own bed, alone, and while he watches his own  _ vode  _ with careful eyes, he takes a swig of the alcohol.

  
  


the first time fox tries alcohol alone, he’s around ten ( twenty ).

he’s alone in his quarters in the senate towers of coruscant, sitting by the window sill and drinking champagne. assigned not to general secura, or skywalker, or kenobi or windu. assigned to the senate, to chancellor palpatine and the delegates of democracy, along with thorn and a couple other brothers who he doesn’t know the names of. his batch doesn’t live with him — they live down at the republic military base. down over south, turquoise lights visible from the silhouette of its complex. he stares at it from afar, out the viewport that traps him in his quarters.

he pops off the cap of the bottle, and takes a swig of it. there’s no one around to ogle at him in shock, no one around to grab the bottle for their next turn. it’s just him. alone.

when he’s done, he doesn’t grimace at the taste. it’s good. bitter.


	4. dogma

dogma didn’t get to choose his name. he didn’t really get to choose anything for himself at all — for the most part of his short life, he’s been living in the impressions of what others wanted him to be. he chose this hairstyle because he heard it was the most effective hairstyle in combat. he chose this tattoo because tup said it looked cool once. he chose this name because, well, he didn’t really have a say in the matter. before, his only name was 81. never really saw the appeal of a name, liked the concept but never the action. but after the incident, people called him dogma. dogma. a principle or set of principles laid down by an authority as incontrovertibly true. an insult, he thinks it is. he’s heard tup yell at the others for the nickname, but once he slips up and calls him that. it stings, he thinks.

“sorry, 81,” tup apologizes, eyes downcast when he slips up for the third time in the row and calls him dogma. he shakes his head.

“it’s fine,” he says. “just call me dogma. it’s easier.”

he didn’t get to choose his name. but if it makes things easier for the generals to call roll, then so be it.

**Author's Note:**

> i am wlwsoka on tumblr if you want to check out my horrible posts!


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